At the edge of questions. Like a dark ring under orbits then it is
dug open. As if a ditch an abyss. Geographic border now settled. Undermining
process. Nothing sharp nor blunt. Crumbling and recoil. Behind. A land where is
left if not naively then natively like
the taste for being born. Past the debris is the touching joy. With rusty and
sepia colored smell and the warmth of a hand. It’s the land of a voice that
doesn’t withdraw whatever wind and sent up dusts and fallouts. It’s there. Edge
of questions. Dotted strip constituting the writing of another language beyond
eyes. Maybe far but it chooses close. Proximity of presence till where it reads
alveolus. At the edge of questions I breath you. Always.